Song for Harvest
My mother carries silence badly
What have I to say?
Desperate to bury this absurd poem
Words unearthing churn of hurt
Stitched from pieces of page scattered
in long since dormant notebooks.
Love is in the tender broad beans picked
plump as little kids.
Renewal rests in the rubbing off of garlic skins.
Dangers live in the dumb steel prongs
of the clumsy fork bayonetting spuds.
Chance will determine who comes out whole.
These are words written in the autumn
A song shared for the harvest. A thought
for the sprackle of dry-brown foliage
on the breeze, stronger than you imagined.
She is coming through the soil again, overwintering.
She’ll be there frozen in the new year for me to tend.
James A Bullion, July 2014
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